The next minute Fanny had left the room. It was one of the rules of the club that gossip, in the ordinary sense of the world, with regard to any member was strictly forbidden; so no one made any comment when Fanny had taken her departure. There was a sense of relief, however, felt by the girls who remained behind. The meeting was a sorrowful one, and broke up rather earlier than usual.
At prayers that night in the chapel Margaret Grant and the other girls of the Specialities were startled when Mr. Fairfax made special mention of Betty Vivian, praying God to comfort her in sore distress and to heal her sickness. The prayer was extempore, and roused the girls to amazed attention.
Fanny was not present that night at chapel. She was so angry that she felt she must give vent to her feelings to some one; therefore, why not speak to Sibyl at once?
Sibyl was not considered very strong, and though she did belong to the upper school, usually went to bed before prayers. She was in her small room to-night. It was a pretty, neatly furnished room in the west wing—one of those usually given to a lower-school girl on first entering the upper school. Sibyl had no intention, however, of going to bed. She sat by her fire, her heart beating high, her thoughts full of the privileges which would so soon be hers. She was composing, in her own mind, a wonderful letter to send to her people at home; she pictured to herself their looks of delight when they heard that this great honor had been bestowed upon her. For, of course, Sibyl, as a member of the lower school at Haddo Court, had heard much of the Specialities, and what she had heard she had repeated; so that when she wanted to amuseher select friends in her father’s parish, she frequently gave them some information on this most interesting subject. Now she was on the point of being a member herself! How she would enjoy her Christmas holidays! How she would be feted and fussed over and petted! How carefully she would guard the secrets of the club, and how very high she would hold her own small head! She a member of the great Haddo Court School, and also a Speciality!
While Sibyl was thus engaged, seeing pictures in the fire and smiling quietly to herself, she suddenly heard a light tap at her room door. She started to her feet, and the next minute she had flown across the room and opened the door. Fanny stood without.
“Oh, you dear, darling Fan!” exclaimed Sibyl. “You are good! Come in—do come in! Is the meeting over? And—and—oh, Fanny! what have they said? Has my name been put to the vote? Of course you and Martha would be on my side, and you and Martha are so strong that you would carry the rest of the members with you. Fan, am I to have a copy of the rules? And—and—oh, Fan! is it settled? Do—do tell me!”
“I wish you weren’t quite so excited, Sibyl! Let me sit down; I have a bad headache.”
Fanny sank languidly into the chair which Sibyl herself had been occupying. There was only one easy-chair in this tiny room. Sibyl had, therefore, to draw forward a hard and high one for herself. But she was far too excited to mind this at the present moment.
“And what a fearful blaze of light you have!” continued Fanny, looking round fretfully. “Don’t you know, Sibyl, that, unless we are occupied over our studies, we are not allowed to turn on such a lot of light? Here, let me put the room in shadow.”
“Let’s have firelight only,” laughed Sibyl, who was not quick at guessing things, and felt absolute confidence inFanny’s powers. The next instant she had switched off the light and was kneeling by Fanny’s side. “Now, Fanny—now, do put me out of suspense!”
“I will,” said Fanny. “I have come here for the purpose. I did what I could for you, Sib. You must bear your disappointment as best you can. I am truly sorry for you, but things can’t be helped.”
“You are truly sorry for me—and—and—things can’t be helped!” exclaimed Sibyl, amazement in her voice. “What do you mean?”
“Well, they won’t have you at any price as a member of the Specialities; and the person who spoke most strongly against you was your dear and special friend, Martha West. I am not at liberty to quote a single word of what she did say; but you are not to be a Speciality—at least, not for a year. If at the end of a year you have done something wonderful—the sort of thing which you, poor Sibyl, could never possibly do—the matter may be brought up again for reconsideration. As things stand, you are not to be elected; so the sooner you put the matter out of your head the better.”
Sibyl turned very white. Then her face became suffused with small patches of vivid color.
Fanny was not looking at her; had she looked she might have perceived that Sibyl’s expression was anything but amiable at that moment. The girl’s extraordinary silence, however—the absence of all remark—the absence, even, of any expression of sorrow—presently caused Fanny to glance round at her. “Well,” she said, “I thought I’d tell you at once. You must put it out of your head. I think I will go to bed now. Good-night, Sibyl. Sorry I couldn’t do more for you.”
“Don’t go!” said Sibyl. “What do you mean?”
There was a quality in Sibyl’s voice which made Fanny feel uncomfortable.
“I am much too tired,” Fanny said, “to stay up anylonger chatting with an insignificant little girl like you. I could not even stay to the conclusion of our meeting, and I certainly don’t want to be seen in your room. I did my best for you. I have failed. I am sorry, and there’s an end of it.”
“Oh no, there isn’t an end of it!” said Sibyl.
“What do you mean, Sibyl?”
“I mean,” said Sibyl, “that you have got to reward me for doing your horrid—horrid, dirty work!”
“You odious little creature! what do you mean? My dirty work! Sibyl, I perceive that I was mistaken in you. I also perceive that Martha West and the others were right. You are indeed unworthy to be a Speciality.”
“If all were known,” said Sibyl, “I don’t think I am half as unworthy as you are, Fanny Crawford. Anyhow, if I am not to be made a Speciality, and if every one is going to despise me and look down on me, why, I have nothing to lose, and I may as well make an example of you.”
“You odious child! whatdoyou mean?”
“Why, I can tell Mrs. Haddo as well as anybody else. Every one in the school knows that Betty is ill to-night. Something seems to have gone wrong with her head, and she is crying out about a packet—a lost packet. Now,youknow how the packet was lost. You and I both know how it was found—and lost again. You have it, Fanny. You are the one who can cure Betty Vivian—Betty, who never was unkind to any one; Betty, who did not mean me to be a figure of fun, as you suggested, on the night of the entertainment; Betty, who has been kind to me, as she has been kind to every one else since she came to the school.Youhave done nothing for me, Fanny; so I—I can take care of myself in future, and perhaps Betty too.”
To say that Fanny was utterly amazed and horrified at Sibyl’s speech—to say that Fanny was thunderstruck when she perceived that this poor little worm, as she consideredSibyl Ray, had turned at last—would be but very inadequately to describe the situation. Fanny lost her headache on the spot. Here was danger, grave and imminent; here was the possibility of her immaculate character being dragged through the mud; here was the terrible possibility of Fanny Crawford being seen in her true colors. She had now to collect her scattered senses—in short, to pull herself together.
“Oh Sibyl,” she said after a pause, “you frightened me for a minute—you really did! Who would suppose that you were such a spirited girl?”
“I am not spirited, Fanny; but I love Betty, notwithstanding all you have tried to do to put me against her. And if I am not to be a Speciality I would ever so much rather be Betty’s friend than yours. There! Now I have spoken. Perhaps you would like to go now, Fan, as your head is aching so badly?”
“It doesn’t ache now,” said Fanny; “your conduct has frightened all the aches away. Sibyl, you really are the very queerest girl! I came here to-night full of the kindest feelings towards you. You can ask Martha West how I spoke of you at the club.”
“But she won’t tell me. Anything that you say in the club isn’t allowed to be breathed outside it.”
“I know that. Anyhow, I have been doing my utmost to get the school to see you in your true light. I have taken great notice of you, and you have been proud to receive my notice. It is certainly true that I have failed to get you what I hoped I could manage; but there are other things——”
“Other things!” said Sibyl. She stood in a defiant attitude quite foreign to her usual manner.
“Oh yes, my dear child, lots and lots of other things! For instance, in the Christmas holidays I can have you to stay with me at Brighton. What do you say to that? Don’t you think that would be a feather in your cap?I have an aunt who lives there, Aunt Amelia Crawford; and she generally allows me—that is, when father cannot have me—to bring one of my school-friends with me to stay in her lovely house. I had a letter from her only yesterday, asking me which girl I would like to bring with me this year. I thought of Olive—Olive is such fun; but I’d just as soon have you—that is, if you would like to come.”
Alas for poor Sibyl! She was not proof against such a tempting bait.
“As far as you are concerned,” continued Fanny, who saw that she was making way with Sibyl, and breaking down, as she expressed it, her silly little defences, “you would gain far more prestige in being Aunt Amelia’s guest than if you belonged to twenty Speciality Clubs. Aunt Amelia is good to the girls who come to stay with her as my friends. And I’d help you, Sib; I’d make the best of your dresses. We’d go to the theatre, and the pantomime, and all kinds of jolly things. We’d have a rattling fine time.”
“Do you really mean it?” said Sibyl.
“Yes—that is, if you will give me your solemn word that you will refer no more to that silly matter about Betty Vivian. Betty Vivian had no right to that packet. It belonged to my father, and I have got it back for him. Don’t think of it any more, Sibyl, and you shall be my guest this Christmas. But if you prefer to make a fuss, and drag me into an unpleasant position, and get yourself, in all probability, expelled from the school, then you must do as you please.”
“But if I were expelled, you’d be expelled too,” said Sibyl.
Fanny laughed. “I think not,” she said. “I think, without any undue pride, that my position in the school is sufficiently strong to prevent such a catastrophe. No; you would be cutting off your nose to spite your face—thatis all you would be doing with this nice little scheme of yours. Give it up, Sibyl, and you shall come to Brighton.”
“It is dull at home at Christmas,” said Sibyl. “We are so dreadfully poor, and father has such a lot to do; and there are always those half-starved, smelly sort of people coming to the house—the sort that want coal-tickets, you know, and grocery-tickets; and—and—we have to help to give great big Christmas dinners. We are all day long getting up entertainments for those dull sort of people. I often think they are not a bit grateful, and after being at a school like this I really feel quite squeamish about them.”
Fanny laughed. She saw, or believed she saw, that her cause was won. “You’ll have nothing to make you squeamish at Aunt Amelia’s,” she said. “And now I must say good-night. Sorry about the Specialities; but, after the little exhibition you have just made of yourself, I agree with the other girls that you are not fit to be a member. Now, ta-ta for the present.”
Fanny went straight to her own room. “What a nasty time I have lived through!” she thought as she was about to enter. Then she opened the door and started back.
The whole room had undergone a metamorphosis. There was a shaded light in one corner, and the door between Fanny’s room and Betty’s was thrown open. A grave, kind-looking nurse was seated by a table, on which was a shaded lamp; and on seeing Fanny enter she held up her hand with a warning gesture. The next minute she had beckoned the girl out on the landing.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Fanny. “What are you doing in my room?”
“The doctor wished the door to be opened and the room to be given up to me,” replied the nurse. “My name is Sister Helen, and I am looking after dear little Miss Vivian. We couldn’t find you to tell you about the necessary alterations, which were made in a hurry. Ah, I mustn’t leave my patient! I hear her calling out again. She is terribly troubled about something she has lost. Do you hear her?”
“I won’t give it up! I won’t give it up!” called poor Betty’s voice.
“I was asked to tell you,” said Sister Helen, “to go straight to Miss Symes, who has arranged another room for you to sleep in—that is, if youareMiss Crawford.”
“Yes, that is my name. Have my things been removed?”
“I suppose so, but I don’t know. I am going back to my patient.”
The nurse re-entered the room, closing the door on Fanny, who stood by herself in the corridor. She heard Betty’s voice, and Betty’s voice sounded so high and piercing and full of pain that her first feeling was one of intense thankfulness that she had been moved from close proximity to the girl. The next minute she was speeding down the corridor in the direction of Miss Symes’s room. Half-way there she met St. Cecilia coming to meet her.
“Ah, Fanny, dear,” said Miss Symes, “I thought your little meeting would have been over by now. Do you greatly mind sharing my room with me to-night? I cannot get another ready for you in time. Dr. Ashley wishes the nurse who is looking after Betty to have your room for the present. There was no time to tell you, dear; but I have collected the few things I think you will want till the morning. To-morrow we will arrange another room for you. In the meantime I hope you will put up with me. I have had a bed put into a corner of my room and a screen around it, so you will be quite comfortable.”
“Thank you,” said Fanny. She wondered what further unpleasantness was about to happen to her on that inauspicious night.
“You would like to go to bed, dear, wouldn’t you?” said Miss Symes.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Well, you shall do so. I cannot go for a couple of hours, as Mrs. Haddo wants me to sit up with her until the specialist arrives from London.”
“The specialist from London!” exclaimed Fanny, turning first red and then white. “Do you mean that Mrs. Haddo has sent for a London doctor?”
“Indeed she has. My dear, poor little Betty is dangerously ill. Dr. Ashley is by no means satisfied about her.”
By this time the two had reached Miss Symes’s beautiful room. Fanny gave a quick sigh. Then, like a flash, a horrible thought occurred to her. Her room had to be given up to-morrow. Her things would be removed. Among her possessions—put safely away, it is true, but still nottoosafely—was the little sealed packet. If that packet were found, Fanny felt that the world would be at an end as far as she was concerned.
“You don’t look well yourself, Fanny,” said Miss Symes, glancing kindly at the girl. “Of course you are sorry about Betty; we are all sorry, for we all love her. If you had been at prayers to-night you would have been astonished at the gloom which was felt in our beautiful little chapel when Mr. Fairfax prayed for her.”
“But she can’t be as ill as all that?” said Fanny.
“She is—very, very ill, dear. The child has evidently got a bad chill, together with a most severe mental shock. We none of us can make out what is the matter; but it is highly probable that the specialist—Dr. Jephson of Harley Street—will insist on the Specialities being questioned as to the reason why Betty was expelled from the club. It is absolutely essential that the girl’s mind should be relieved,and that as soon as possible. She is under the influence now of a composing draught, and, we greatly trust, may be more like herself in the morning. Don’t look too sad, dear Fanny! I can quite understand that you must feel this very deeply, for Betty is your cousin; and somehow, dear—forgive me for saying it—but you do not act quite the cousin’s part to that poor, sweet child. Now I must leave you. Go to bed, dear. Pray for Betty, and then sleep all you can.”
“Where are the twins?” suddenly asked Fanny.
“They are sleeping to-night in the lower school. It was necessary to put the poor darlings as far from Betty as possible, for they are in a fearful state about her. Now I will leave you, Fanny. I am wanted elsewhere. When I do come to bed I will be as quiet as possible, so as not to disturb you.”
Fanny made no answer, and the next minute Miss Symes had left her.
Fanny now went over to the corner of the room where a snug little white bed had been put up, a washhand-stand was placed and where a small chest of drawers stood—empty at present, for only a few of Fanny’s things had been taken out of her own room. The girl looked round her in a bewildered way. The packet!—the sealed packet! To-morrow all her possessions would be removed into a room which would be got ready for her. There were always one or two rooms to spare at Haddo Court, and Fanny would be given a room to herself again. She was far too important a member of that little community not to have the best possible done for her. Deft and skillful servants would take her things out of the various drawers and move them to another room. They would find the packet. Fanny knew quite well where she had placed it. She had put it under a pile of linen which she herself took charge of, and which was always kept in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe. Fanny had put the packet there in amoment of excitement and hurry. She had not yet decided what to do with it; she had to make a plan in her own mind, and in the meantime it was safe enough among Fanny’s various and pretty articles of toilet. For it was one of the rules of Haddo Court that each girl, be she rich or poor, should take care of her own underclothing. All that the servants had to do was to see that the things were properly aired; but the girls had to mend their own clothes and keep them tidy.
Absolute horror filled Fanny’s mind now. What was she to do? She was so bewildered that for a time she could scarcely think coherently. Then she made up her mind that, come what would, she must get that packet out of her own bedroom before the servants came in on the following day. She was so absorbed with the thought of her own danger that she had no time to think of the very grave danger which assailed poor little Betty Vivian. If she had disliked Betty before, she hated her now. Oh, how right she had been when, in her heart of hearts, she had opposed Betty’s entrance into the school! What trouble those three tiresome, wild, uncontrollable girls had brought in their wake! And now Betty—Betty, who was so adored—Betty, who, in Fanny’s opinion, was both a thief and a liar—was dangerously ill; and she (Fanny) would in all probability have to appear in a most sorry position. For, whatever Betty’s sin, Fanny knew well that nothing could excuse her own conduct. She had spied on Betty; she had employed Sibyl Ray as a tool; she had got Sibyl to take the packet from under the piece of heather; and that very night she had excited the astonishment of her companions in the Speciality Club by proposing a ridiculously unsuitable person for membership as poor Sibyl.
“Things look as black as night,” thought Fanny to herself. “I don’t want to go to bed. I wish I could get out of this. How odious things are!”
Just then she heard footsteps outside her door—footstepsthat came up close and waited. Then, all of a sudden, the door was flung violently open, and Sylvia and Hester entered. They had been crying so hard that their poor little faces were disfigured almost beyond recognition. Sylvia held a small tin box in her hand.
“What are you doing, girls? You had better go to bed,” said Fanny.
Neither girl took the slightest notice of this injunction. They looked round the room, noting the position of the different articles of furniture. Then Sylvia walked straight up to the screen behind which Fanny’s bed was placed. With a sudden movement she pulled down the bedclothes, opened the little tin box, and put something into Fanny’s bed.
“It’s Dickie!” said Sylvia. “I hope you will like his company. Come, Hetty.”
Before Fanny could find words the girls had vanished. But the look of hatred on Sylvia’s face, the look of defiance and horror on Hetty’s, Fanny was not likely to forget. They shut the door somewhat noisily behind them. Then, all of a sudden, Hetty opened it again, pushed in her small face, and said, “You had better be careful. His bite is dangerous!”
The next instant quick feet were heard running away from Miss Symes’s room, in the center of which Fanny stood stunned and really frightened. What had those awful children put into her bed? She had heard vague rumors of a pet of theirs called Dickie, but had never been interested enough even to inquire about him. Who was Dickie? What was Dickie? Why was his bite dangerous? Why was he put into her bed? Fanny, for all her careful training, for all her airs and graces, was by no means remarkable for physical courage. She approached the bed once or twice, and went back again. She was really afraid to pull down the bedclothes. At last, summoning up courage, she did so. To her horror, she saw an enormous spider, thelargest she had ever beheld, in the center of the bed! This, then, was Dickie! He was curled up as though he were asleep. But as Fanny ventured to approach a step nearer it seemed to her that one wicked, protruding eye fastened itself on her face. The next instant Dickie began to run, and when Dickie ran he ran towards her. Fanny uttered a shriek. It was the culmination of all she had lived through during that miserable evening. One shriek followed another, and in a minute Susie Rushworth and Olive Repton ran into the room.
“Oh, save me! Save me!” said Fanny. “Those little horrors have done it! I don’t know where it is! Oh, it is such an odious, dangerous, awful kind of reptile! It’s the biggest spider I ever saw in all my life, and those horrible twins came and put it into my bed! Oh, girls, what I am suffering! Do have pity on me! Do help me to find it! Do help me to kill it!”
“To kill Dickie!” said Susie. “Why, the poor little twins were heartbroken for two or three days because they thought he was lost. I for one certainly won’t kill Dickie.”
“Nor I,” said Olive.
“Oh, dear! what shall I do?” said poor Fanny. “I really never was in such miserable confusion and wretchedness in my life.”
“Do, Fanny, cease to be such a coward!” said Susie. “I must say I am surprised at you. The poor little twins are almost beside themselves—that is, on account of darling Betty. Betty is so ill; and they think—the twins do——I mean, they have got it into their heads that you—you don’t like Betty, although she is your cousin and the very sweetest girl in all the world. But as to your being afraid of a spider! We’ll have a good hunt for him, and find him. Fanny, I never thought you could scream out as you did. What a mercy that Miss Symes’s room is a good way off from poor darling Betty’s!”
“Do try to think of some one besides Betty for a minute!”said Fanny; “and you find that horror and put him into his box, or put him into anything, only don’t have him loose in the room.”
“Well, we’ll have a good search,” said both the girls, “and we may find him.”
But this was a thing easier said than done; for if there was a knowing spider anywhere in the world, that spider was Dickie of Scotland. Dickie was not going to be easily caught. Perhaps Dickie had a secret sense of humor and enjoyed the situation—the terror of the one girl, the efforts of the others to put him back into captivity. In vain Susie laid baits for Dickie all over the room—bits of raw meat, even one or two dead flies which she found in a corner. But Dickie had secured a hiding-place for himself, and would not come out at present.
“I can’t sleep in the room—that’s all!” said Fanny. “I really can’t—that’s flat.”
“Oh, stop talking for a minute!” said Olive suddenly. “There! didn’t you hear it? Yes, that is the sound of the carriage coming back from the station. Dr. Jephson has come. Oh, I wonder what he will say about her!”
“Don’t leave me, girls, please!” said Fanny. “I never was so utterly knocked to bits in my whole life!”
“Well, we must go to bed or we’ll be punished,” said Susie.
“Susie, you are not a bit afraid of reptiles; won’t you change rooms with me?” asked Fanny.
“I would, only it’s against the rules,” said Susie at once.
Olive also shook her head. “It’s against the rules, Fanny; and, really, if I were you I’d pull myself together, and on a night like this, when the whole house is in such a state of turmoil, I’d try to show a spark of courage and not be afraid of a poor little spider.”
“Alittlespider! You haven’t seen him,” said Fanny. “Why, he’s nearly as big as an egg! I tell you he is most dangerous.”
“That’s the doctor! Oh, I wonder what he is going to say!” exclaimed Olive. “Come, Susie,” she continued, turning to her companion, “we must go to bed. Good-night, Fanny; good-night.”
Fanny was left alone with Dickie. It was really awful to be quite alone in a room where a spider nearly the size of an egg had concealed himself. If Dickie would only come out and show himself Fanny thought she could fight him; but he was at once big enough to bite and terrify her up to the point of danger, and small enough effectually to hide his presence. Fanny was really nervous; all the events of the day had conspired to make her so. She, who, as a rule, knew nothing whatever about nerves, was oppressed by them now. There had been the meeting of the Specialities; there had been the blunt refusal to make Sibyl one of their number. Then there was the appalling fact that she (Fanny) was turned out of her bedroom. There was also the unpleasantness of Sibyl’s insurrection; and last, but not least, a spider had been put into her bed by those wicked girls.
Oh, what horrors all the Vivians were! What turmoil they had created in the hitherto orderly, happy school! “No wonder I hate them!” thought Fanny. “Well, I can’t sleep here—that’s plain.” She stood by the fire. The fire began to get low; the hour waxed late. There was no sound whatever in the house. Betty’s beautiful room was in a distant wing. The doctors might consult in the adjoining room that used to be Fanny’s as much as they pleased, but not one sound of their voices or footstepscould reach the girl. The other schoolgirls had gone to bed. They were all anxious, all more or less unhappy; but, compared to Fanny, they were blessed with sweet peace, and could slumber without any sense of reproach.
Fanny found herself turning cold. She was also hungry. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece; the hour was past midnight. As a rule, she was in bed and sound asleep long before this time. Her cold and hunger made her look at the fire; it was getting low.
Mrs. Haddo was so determined to give the girls of her school every possible comfort that she never allowed them to feel cold in the house. The passages were therefore heated in winter-time with steam, and each bedroom had its own cheery fire. The governesses were treated almost better than the pupils. But then people were not expected to sit up all night.
Fanny opened the coal-hod, intending to put fresh coals on the dying fire; but, to her distress, found that the hod was empty. This happened to be a mistake on the part of the housemaid who had charge of this special room.
Fanny felt herself growing colder and colder, and yet she dared not go to bed. She had turned on all the electric lights, and the room itself was bright as day. Suddenly she heard the sound of wheels crunching on the gravel outside. She rushed to the window, and was relieved to observe that the doctor’s carriage was bowling down the avenue. The doctors had therefore gone. Miss Symes would come to bed very soon now. Perhaps Miss Symes would know how to catch Dickie. Anyhow, Fanny would not be alone. She crouched in her chair near the dying embers of the fire. The minutes ticked slowly on until at last it was a quarter to one o’clock. Then Miss Symes opened the door and came in. She hardly noticed the fact that Fanny was up, and the further fact that her fire was nothing but embers did not affect her in the very least. Her eyes were very bright, and there were red spotson each cheek. The expression on her face brought Fanny to the momentary consciousness that they were all in a house where the great Angel of Death might enter at any moment.
Miss Symes sat down on the nearest chair, folded her hands on her lap, and looked at Fanny. “Well,” she said, “have you nothing to ask me?”
“I am a very miserable girl!” said Fanny. “To begin with, I am hungry, for I scarcely ate any supper to-night; I did not care for the food provided by the Specialities. Hours and hours have passed by, and I could not go to bed.”
“And why not, Fanny?” asked Miss Symes. “Why did you stay up against the rules? And why do you think of yourself in a moment like the present?”
“I am sorry,” said Fanny; “but one must always think of one’s self—at least, I am afraidImust. Not that I mean to be selfish,” she added, seeing a look of consternation spread over Miss Symes’s face. “The fact is this, St. Cecilia, I have had the most horrible fright. Those ghastly little creatures the twins—the Vivian twins—brought a most enormous spider into your room, hid it in the center of my bed, and then ran away again. I never saw such a monster! I was afraid to go near the creature at first; and when I did it looked at me—yes, absolutely looked at me! I turned cold with horror. Then, before I could find my voice, it began to run—and towards me! Oh, St. Cecilia, I screamed! I did. Susie and Olive heard me, and came to the rescue. Of course they knew that the spider was Dickie, that horrid reptile those girls brought from Scotland. He has hidden himself somewhere in the room. The twins themselves said that his bite was dangerous, so I am quite afraid to go to bed; I am, really.”
“Come, Fanny, don’t talk nonsense!” said Miss Symes. “The poor little twins are to be excused to-night, for they are really beside themselves. I have just left the poorlittle children, and Martha West is going to spend the night with them. Martha is a splendid creature!”
“I cannot possibly go to bed, Miss Symes.”
“But you really must turn in. We don’t want to have more illnesses in the house than we can help; so, my dear Fanny, get between the sheets and go to sleep.”
“And you really think that Dickie won’t hurt me?”
“Of course not; and you surely can take care of yourself. If you are nervous you can keep one of the electric lights on. Now, do go to bed. I am going to change into a warm dressing-gown, for I want to help the nurse in Betty’s room.”
“And how is Betty?” asked Fanny in a low tone. “Why is there such a frightful fuss about her? Is she so very ill?”
“Yes, Fanny; your cousin, Betty Vivian, is dangerously ill. No one can quite account for what is wrong; but that her brain is affected there is not the slightest doubt, and the doctor from London says that unless she gets relief soon he fears very much for the result. The child is suffering from a very severe shock, and to-morrow Mrs. Haddo intends to make most urgent inquiries as to the nature of what went wrong. But I needn’t talk to you any longer about her now. Go to bed and to sleep.”
While Miss Symes was speaking she was changing her morning-dress and putting on a very warm woolen dressing-gown. The next minute she had left the room without taking any further notice of Fanny. Fanny, terrified, cold, afraid to undress, but unable from sheer sleepiness to stay up any longer, got between the sheets and soon dropped into undisturbed slumber. If Dickie watched her in the distance he left her alone. There were worse enemies waiting to spy on poor Fanny than even Dickie.
In a school like Haddo Court dangerous illness must affect each member of the large and as a rule deeply attached family. Betty Vivian had come like a bright meteorinto the midst of the school. She had delighted her companions; she had fascinated them; she had drawn forth love. She could do what no other girl had ever done in the school. No one supposed Betty to be free from faults, but every one also knew that her faults were exceeded by her virtues. She was loved because she was lovable. The only one who really hated her was her cousin Fanny.
Now, Fanny knew well that inquiries would be made; for the favorite must not be ill if anything could be done to save her, nor must a stone be left unturned to effect her recovery.
Fanny awoke the next morning with a genuine headache, fearing she knew not what. The great gong which always awoke the school was not sounded that day; but a servant came in and brought Fanny’s hot water, waking her at the same time. Fanny rubbed her eyes, tried to recall where she was, and then asked the woman how Miss Vivian was.
“I don’t know, miss. It’s a little late, but if you are quick you’ll be down in hall at the usual time.”
Fanny felt that she hated the woman. As she dressed, however, she forgot all about her, so intensely anxious was she to recover the packet from its hiding-place in her own bedroom. She wondered much if she could accomplish this, and presently, prompted by the motto, “Nothing venture, nothing win,” tidied her dress, smoothed back her hair, washed her face, tried to look as she might have looked on an ordinary morning, and finding that she had quite ten minutes to spare before she must appear in hall, ran swiftly in the direction of her own room.
She was sufficiently early to know that there was very little chance of her meeting another girl en route, and even if she did she could easily explain that she was going to her room to fetch some article of wardrobe which had been forgotten.
She reached the room. The door was shut. Very softlyshe turned the handle; it yielded to her pressure, and she went in.
The nurse turned at once to confront her. “You mustn’t come in here, miss.”
“I just want to fetch something from one of my drawers; I won’t make the slightest noise,” said Fanny. “Please let me in.”
Sister Helen said nothing further. Fanny softly opened one of the drawers. She knew the exact spot where the packet lay hidden. A moment later she had folded it up in some of her under-linen and conveyed it outside the room without Sister Helen suspecting anything. As soon as she found herself in the corridor she removed the packet from its wrappings and slipped it into her inner pocket. It must stay on her person for the present, for in no other place could it possibly be safe. When she regained Miss Symes’s room she found that lady already there. She was making her toilet.
“Why, Fanny,” she said, “what have you been doing? You haven’t, surely, been to your own room! Did Sister Helen let you in?”
“She didn’t want to; but I required some—some handkerchiefs and things of that sort,” said Fanny.
“Well, you haven’t brought any handkerchiefs,” said Miss Symes. “You have only brought a couple of night-dresses.”
“Sister Helen rather frightened me, and I just took these and ran away,” answered the girl. Then she added, lowering her voice, “How is Betty to-day?”
“You will hear all about Betty downstairs. It is time for you to go into the hall. Don’t keep me, Fanny.”
Fanny, only too delighted, left the room. Now she was safe. The worst of all could not happen to her. When she reached the great central hall, where the girls usually met for a few minutes before breakfast, she immediately joined a large circle of girls of the upper school. They weretalking about Betty. Among the group was Sibyl Ray. Sibyl was crying, and when Fanny appeared she turned abruptly aside as though she did not wish to be seen. Fanny, who had been almost jubilant at having secured the packet, felt a new sense of horror at Sibyl’s tears. Sibyl was the sort of girl to be very easily affected.
As Fanny came near she heard Susie Rushworth say to Sibyl, “Yes, it is true; Betty has lost something, and if she doesn’t find it she will—the doctor, the great London doctor, says that she will—die.”
Sibyl gave another great, choking sob.
Fanny took her arm. “Sibyl,” she said, “don’t you want to come for a walk with me during recess this morning?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Fanny!” said poor Sibyl, raising her eyes, streaming with tears, to Fanny’s face.
“Well, I want you,” said Fanny. Then she added in a low tone, “Don’t forget Brighton and Aunt Amelia, and the excellent time you will have, and the positive certainty that before a year is up you will be a Speciality. Don’t lose all these things for the sake of a little sentiment. Understand, too, that doctors are often wrong about people. It is ridiculous to suppose that a strong, hearty girl like Betty Vivian should have her life in danger because you happened to find——”
“Oh, don’t!” said Sibyl. “I—Ican’tbear it! I saw Sylvia and Hetty last night. I can’t bear it!”
“You are a little goose, Sibyl! It’s my opinion you are not well. You must cling to me, dear, and I will pull you through—see if I don’t.”
As Fanny took her usual place at the breakfast-table Susie Rushworth said to her, “You really are kind to that poor little Sibyl, Fan. After all, we must have been a little hard on her last night. She certainly shows the greatest distress and affection for poor dear Betty.”
“I said she was a nice child. I shouldn’t be likely to propose her for the club if she were not,” said Fanny.
Susie said nothing more. All the girls were dull, grave, distressed. The twins were nowhere to be seen. Betty’s sweet face, Betty’s sparkling eyes, Betty’s gay laugh, were conspicuous by their absence. Miss Symes did not appear at all.
When breakfast was over, and the brief morning prayers had been gone through by Mr. Fairfax—for these prayers were not said in the chapel—Mrs. Haddo rose and faced the school. “Girls,” she said, “I wish to let you all know that one of your number—one exceedingly dear to us all—is lying now at the point of death. Whether God will spare her or not depends altogether on her mind being given a certain measure of relief. I need not tell you her name, for you all know it, and I believe you are all extremely grieved at what has occurred. It is impossible for any of you to help her at this moment except by being extra quiet, and by praying to God to be good to her and her two little sisters. I propose, therefore, to make a complete alteration in the arrangements of to-day. I am going to send the whole of the upper school—with the exception of the members of the Speciality Club—to London by train. Two of the teachers, Mademoiselle and Miss Oxley, will accompany you. You will all be driven to the station, and win return to-night—having, I hope, enjoyed a pleasant day. By that time there may be good news to greet you. No lessons to-day for any of the upper school; so, girls, go at once and get ready.”
All the girls began now to leave the great hall, with the exception of the Specialities and Sibyl Ray.
“Go, Sibyl!” said Fanny. “What are you lingering for?”
“Yes, Sibyl, be quick; don’t delay!” said Mrs. Haddo, speaking rather sharply. “You will all be back in time to-night to hear the latest report of dear Betty, and we trust we may have good news to tell you.”
Sibyl went with extreme slowness and extreme unwillingness.But for the fact that Fanny kept her eye fixed on Sibyl she might have refused to budge. As it was, she left the hall; and a very few minutes later wagonettes and motors appeared in view, and the girls of the upper school drove to the railway station.
As Fanny saw Sibyl driving off with the others she became conscious of a new sense of relief. She had been so anxious with regard to Sibyl that she had not had time to wonder why the Specialities were not included in the entertainment. Now, however, her thoughts were turned into a different channel.
Susie Rushworth came up to Fanny. “Fanny,” she said, “you and I, and the Bertrams, and Olive, and Margaret, and Martha are all to go immediately to Mrs. Haddo’s private sitting-room.”
“What for?” asked Fanny.
“I expect that she will explain. We are to go, and at once.”
Fanny did not dare to say any more. They all went slowly together in the direction of that beautiful room where Mrs. Haddo, usually so bright, so cheery, so full of enthusiasm, invited her young pupils to meet her. But there was no smile of welcome on that lady’s fine face on the present occasion. She did not even shake hands with the girls as they approached. All she did was to ask them to sit down.
Fanny took her place between Olive and one of the Bertrams. She could not help noticing a great change in their manner towards her. As a rule she was a prime favorite, and to sit next Fanny Crawford was considered a very rare honor. On this occasion, however, the girls rather edged away from Fanny.
Mrs. Haddo seated herself near the fire. Then she turned and spoke to Margaret Grant. “Margaret,” she said, “I ask you, in the name of the other members of your club, to give me full and exact particulars with regard to yourexpulsion of Betty Vivian. I must know, and fully, why Betty was expelled. Pause a minute before you speak, dear. For long years I have allowed this club to exist in the school, believing much in its good influence—in its power to ennoble and raise the impressionable character of a young girl. I have not interfered with it; on the contrary, I have been proud of it. To each girl who became a Speciality I immediately granted certain privileges, knowing well that no girl would be lightly admitted to a club with so high an aim and so noble a standard.
“When Betty first came I perceived at once that she was fearless, very affectionate, and possessed a strong, pronounced, willful character; I saw, in short, that she was worth winning and loving. I liked her sisters also; but Betty was superior to her sisters. I departed from several established customs when I admitted the Vivians to this school, and I will own that I had my qualms of conscience notwithstanding the fact that my old friend Sir John Crawford was so anxious for me to have them here. Nevertheless, when first I saw Betty I knew that he was right and I was wrong. That such a girl might stir up deep interest, and perhaps even bring sorrow into the school, I knew was within the bounds of probability; but I did not think it possible that she could ever disgrace it. I own I was a little surprised when I was told that so new a girl was made a member of your club; but as you, Margaret, were secretary, and as Susie Rushworth and my dear friend Fanny were members, I naturally had not a word to say, and only admired your discernment in reading aright that young character.
“Then there came the news—the terrible news—that Betty was expelled; and since then there has been confusion, sorrow, and now this most alarming illness. The girl is dying of a broken heart. She has lost something that she treasures. Margaret, the rules of the club must give place to the greater rules of the school; and I demanda full explanation from you of the exact reason why Betty Vivian is no longer a member of the Specialities.”
Margaret looked round at the other members. All their faces were white. No one spoke for a minute.
Then Fanny rose and said, “Is it fair, for Betty’s sake, that we should break our own rules? The reason of her being no longer a member is at present known only to the rest of us. Is it right that it should be made public property?”
“It must be mademyproperty, Fanny Crawford; and I do not ask you, much as I esteem your father’s friendship, to dictate to me in this matter.”
Fanny sat down again. She felt the little packet in her pocket. That, at least, was secure; that, at least, would not rise up and betray her.
Margaret gave a very simple explanation of the reason why Betty could not remain in the club. She said that Betty had taken the rules and studied them carefully; had most faithfully promised to obey them; and then, a fortnight later, had stood up and stated that she had broken Rule No. I., for she had a secret which she had not divulged to the other members.
“And that secret, Margaret?” asked Mrs. Haddo.
“She had, she said, a packet—a sealed packet of great value—that she did not wish any one in the school to know about. It had been given to her by one she loved. She was extremely reticent about it, and seemed to be in great trouble. She explained why she had not spoken of it at first by saying that she did not think that the secret concerned any one in the school, but since she had joined the club she had felt that she ought to tell. We asked her all the questions we could; and she certainly gave us to understand that the packet was hers by right, but that, rather than give it up, she had told an untruth about it to Fanny’s father, Sir John Crawford. We were very much stunned and distressed at her revelation, and we beggedof her to go with the story to you, and also to put the packet in your charge, and tell you what she had already told us. This she emphatically refused to do, saying that she would never give the packet up under any conditions whatever. We had a special meeting of the club on the following night, when we again asked Betty what she meant to do. She said her intention was to keep firmly to her resolve that she would never give up the packet nor tell where she had hidden it. We then felt it to be our bounden duty to ask her to withdraw from the club. She did so. I think that is all.”
“Only,” said Mrs. Haddo, speaking in a voice of great distress, “that the poor, unhappy child seems to have lost the packet—which contained nobody knows what, but some treasure which she prized—and that the loss and the shock together are affecting her life to the point of danger. Girls, do any of you know—have you any clue whatsoever to—where the packet is now? Please remember, dear girls, that Betty’s life—that beautiful, vivid young life—depends on that packet being restored. Don’t keep it a secret if you have any clue whatsoever to give me, for I am miserable about this whole thing.”
“Indeed we wouldn’t keep it a secret,” said Margaret. “How could we? We’d give all the world to find it for her. Who can have taken it?”
“Some one has, beyond doubt,” said Mrs. Haddo. “Children, this is a terrible day for me. I have tried to be kind to you all. Won’t you help me now in my sorrow?”
The girls crowded round her, some of them kneeling by her side, some of them venturing to kiss her hand; but from every pair of lips came the same words, “We know nothing of the packet.” Even Fanny, who kept it in her pocket, and who heartily wished that it was lying at the bottom of the sea, repeated the same words as her companions.
A few minutes later the Speciality girls had left Mrs. Haddo’s room. There were to be no lessons that day; therefore they could spend their time as they liked best. But an enforced holiday of this kind was no pleasure to any of them.
Martha said at once that she was going to seek the twins. “I have left them in my room,” she said. “They hardly slept all night. I never saw such dear, affectionate little creatures. They are absolutely broken-hearted. I promised to come to them as soon as I could.”
“Have you asked them to trust you—to treat you as a true friend?” asked Fanny Crawford.
“I have, Fanny; and the strange thing is, that although beyond doubt they know pretty nearly as much about Betty’s secret and about the lost packet as she does herself, poor child, they are just as reticent with regard to it. They will not tell. Nothing will induce them to betray Betty. Over and over again I have implored of them, for the sake of her life, to take me into their confidence; but I might as well have spoken to adamant. They will not do it.”
“They have exactly the same stubborn nature,” said Fanny.
The other girls looked reproachfully at her.
Then Olive said, “You have never liked your cousins, Fanny; and it does pain us all that you should speak against them at a moment like the present.”
“Then I will go away,” said Fanny. “I can see quite well that my presence is uncongenial to you all. I will find my own amusements. But I may as well state that if I am to be tortured and looked down on in the school, I shall write to Aunt Amelia and ask her to take me in untilfather writes to Mrs. Haddo about me. You must admit, all of you, that it has been a miserable time for me since the Vivians came to the school.”
“You have made it miserable yourself, Fanny,” was Susie’s retort.
Then Fanny got up and went away. A moment later she was joined by Martha West.
“Fanny, dear Fanny,” said Martha, “won’t you tell me what is changing you so completely?”
“There is nothing changing me,” said Fanny in some alarm. “What do you mean, Martha?”
“Oh, but you look so changed! You are not a bit what you used to be—so jolly, so bright, so—so very pretty. Now you have a careworn, anxious expression. I don’t understand you in the very least.”
“And I don’t want you to,” said Fanny. “You are all bewitched with regard to that tiresome girl; even I, your old and tried friend, have no chance against her influence. When I tell you I know her far better than any of you can possibly do, you don’t believe me. You suspect me of harboring unkind and jealous thoughts against her; as if I, Fanny Crawford, could be jealous of a nobody like Betty Vivian!”
“Fanny, you know perfectly well that Betty will never be a nobody. There is something in her which raises her altogether above the low standard to which you assign her. Oh, Fanny, what is the matter with you?”
“Please leave me alone, Martha. If you had spent the wretched night I have spent you might look tired and worn out too. I was turned out of my bedroom, to begin with, because Sister Helen required it.”
“Well, surely there was no hardship in that?” said Martha. “I, for instance, spent the night gladly with dear little Sylvia and Hester; we all had a room together in the lower school. Do you think I grumbled?”
“Oh, of course you are a saint!” said Fanny with a sneer.
“I am not, but I think I am human; and just at present, for some extraordinary reason, you are not.”
“Well, you haven’t heard the history of my woes. I had to share Miss Symes’s room with her.”
“St. Cecilia’s delightful room! Surely that was no great hardship?”
“Wait until you hear. St. Cecilia was quite kind, as she always is; and I was told that I could have a room to myself to-night. I found, to begin with, however, that most of the clothes I wanted had been left behind in my own room. Still, I made no complaint; although, of course, it was not comfortable, particularly as Miss Symes intended to sit up in order to see the doctors. But as I was preparing to get into bed, those twins—those horrid girls that you make such a fuss about, Martha—rushed into the room and put an awful spider into the center of my bed, and when I tried to get rid of it, it rushed towards me. Then I screamed out, and Susie and Olive came in. But we couldn’t catch the spider nor find it anywhere. You don’t suppose I was likely to go to bed withthatthing in the room? The fire went nearly out. I was hungry, sleepy, cold. I assure you I have my own share of misery. Then Miss Symes came in and ordered me to bed. I went, but hardly slept a wink. And now you expect me to be as cheerful and bright and busy as a bee this morning!”
“Oh, not cheerful, poor Fanny!—we can none of us be that with Betty in such great danger; but you can at least be busy, you can at least help others.”
“Thank you,” replied Fanny; “self comes first now and then, and it does on the present occasion;” and Fanny marched to Miss Symes’s room.
Martha looked after her until she disappeared from view; then, with a heavy sigh, she went towards her own room. Here a fire was burning. Some breakfast had been brought up for the twins, for they were not expected to appear downstairs that morning. The untasted breakfast, however,remained on the little, round table beside the fire, and Sylvia and Hetty were nowhere to be seen.
“Where have they gone?” thought Martha. “Oh, I trust they haven’t been so mad as to go to Betty’s room!”
She considered for a few minutes. She must find the children, and she must not trouble any one else in the school about them. Dr. Ashley had paid his morning visit, and there was quietness in the corridor just outside Betty’s room. Martha went there and listened. The high-strung, anxious voice was no longer heard crying aloud piteously for what it could not obtain. The door of the room was slightly ajar. Martha ventured to peep in. Betty was lying with her face towards the wall, her long, thick black hair covering the pillow, and one small hand flung restlessly outside the counterpane.
Sister Helen saw Martha, and with a wave of her hand, beckoned the girl not to come in. Martha retreated to the corridor. Sister Helen followed her.
“What do you want, dear?” said the nurse. “You cannot possibly disturb Betty. She is asleep. Both the doctor and I most earnestly hope that she may awake slightly better. Dr. Jephson is coming to see her again this evening. If by that time her symptoms have not improved he is going to bring another brain specialist down with him. Dr. Ashley is to wire him in the middle of the day, stating exactly how Betty Vivian is. If she is the least bit better, Dr. Jephson will come alone; if worse, he will bring Dr. Stephen Reynolds with him. Why, what is the matter? How pale you look!”
“You think badly of Betty, Sister Helen?”
Sister Helen did not speak for a moment except by a certain look expressed in her eyes. “Another nurse will arrive within an hour,” she said, “and then I shall be off duty for a short time. What can I do for you? I mustn’t stay whispering here.”
“I have come to find dear Betty’s little sisters.”
“Oh, they left the room some time ago.”
“Left the room!” said Martha. “Oh, Sister Helen, have they been here?”
“Yes, both of them, poor children. I went away to fetch some hot water. Betty was lying very quiet; she had not spoken for nearly an hour. I hoped she was dropping asleep. When I came back I saw a sight which would bring tears to any eyes. Her two little sisters had climbed on to the bed and were lying close to her, one on each side. They didn’t notice me at all; but as I came in I heard one of them say, ‘Don’t fret, Bettina; we are going now, at once, to find it.’ And then the other said, ‘And we won’t come back until we’ve got it.’ There came the ghost of a smile over my poor little patient’s face. She tried to speak, but was too weak. I went up to one of the little girls and took her arm, and whispered to her gently; and then they both got up at once, as meekly as mice, and said, ‘Betty, we won’t come back until we’ve found it.’ And poor little Betty smiled again. For some extraordinary reason their visit seemed to comfort her; for she sighed faintly, turned on her side, and dropped asleep, just as she is now. I must go back to her at once, Miss—Miss——”
“West,” replied Martha. “Martha West is my name.”
The nurse said nothing further, but returned to the sickroom. Martha went very quickly back to her own. She felt she had a task cut out for her. The twins had in all probability gone out. Their curious reticence had been the most painful part of poor Martha’s night-vigil. She had to try to comfort the little girls who would not confide one particle of their trouble to her. At intervals they had broken into violent fits of sobbing, but they had never spoken; they had not even mentioned Betty’s name. By and by, towards morning, they each allowed Martha to clasp one arm around them, and had dropped off into an uneasy slumber.
Now they were doubtless out of doors. But where? Martha was by no means acquainted with the haunts of the twins. She knew Sibyl Ray fairly well, and had always been kind to her; but up to the present the younger Vivian girls had not seemed to need any special kindness. They were hearty, merry children; they were popular in the school, and had made friends of their own. She wanted to seek for them now, but it never occurred to her for a single moment where they might possibly be discovered.
The grounds round Haddo Court were very extensive, and Martha did not leave a yard of these grounds unexplored, yet nowhere could she find the twins. At last she came back to the house, tired out and very miserable. She ran once more to her own room, wondering if they were now there. The room was quite empty. The housemaid had removed the breakfast-things and built up the fire. Martha had been told as a great secret that the Vivians possessed an attic, where they kept their pets. She found the attic, but it was empty. Even Dickie had forsaken it, and the different caterpillars were all buried in their chrysalis state. Martha quickly left the Vivians’ attic. She wandered restlessly and miserably through the lower school, and visited the room where she had slept, or tried to sleep, the night before. Nowhere could she find them.
Meanwhile Sylvia and Hester had done a very bold deed. They were reckless of school rules at a moment like the present. Their one and only desire was to save Betty at any cost. They knew quite well that Betty had hidden the packet, but where they could not tell. Betty had said to them in her confident young voice, “The less you know the better;” and they had trusted her, as they always would trust her as long as they lived, for Betty, to them, meant all that was noble and great and magnificent in the world.
It flashed now, however, through Sylvia’s little brain that perhaps Betty had taken the lost treasure to Mrs. Milesto keep. She whispered her thought to Hester, who seized it with sudden rapture.
“We can, at least, confide in Mrs. Miles,” said Hetty; “and we can tell the dogs. Perhaps the dogs could scent it out; dogs are such wonders.”
“We will go straight to Mrs. Miles,” said Sylvia.
Betty had told them with great glee—ah, how merry Betty was in those days!—how she had first reached the farm, of her delightful time with Dan and Beersheba, of her dinner, of her drive back. Had not they themselves also visited Stoke Farm? What a delightful, what a glorious, time they had had there! That indeed was a time of joy. Now was a time of fearful trouble. But they felt, poor little things! though they could not possibly confide either in kind Martha West or in any of their school-friends, that they might confide in Mrs. Miles.
Accordingly they managed to vault over the iron railings, get on to the roadside, and in course of time to reach Stoke Farm. The dogs rushed out to meet them. But Dan and Beersheba were sagacious beasts. They hated frivolity, they hated unfeeling people, but they respected great sorrow; and when Hetty said with a burst of tears, “Oh, Dan, Dan, darling Dan, Betty, your Betty and ours, is so dreadfully ill!” Dan fawned upon the little girl, licked her hands, and looked into her face with all the pathos in the world in his brown doggy eyes. Beersheba, of course, followed his brother’s example. So the poor little twins, accompanied by the dogs, entered Mrs. Miles’s kitchen.
Mrs. Miles sprang up with a cry of rapture and surprise at the sight of them. “Why, my dears! my dears!” she said. “And wherever is the elder of you? Where do she be? Oh, then it’s me is right glad to see you both!”
“We want to talk to you, Mrs. Miles,” said Sylvia.
“And we want to kiss you, Mrs. Miles,” said Hester.
Then they flung themselves upon her and burst into floods of most bitter weeping.
Mrs. Miles had not brought up a large family of children for nothing. She was accustomed to childish griefs. She knew how violent, how tempestuous, such griefs might be, and yet how quickly the storms would pass, the sunshine come, and how smiles would replace tears. She treated the twins, therefore, now, just as though they were her own children. She allowed them to cry on her breast, and murmured, “Dear, dear! Poor lambs! poor lambs! Now, this is dreadful bad, to be sure! But don’t you mind how many tears you shed when you’ve got Mrs. Miles close to you. Cry on, pretties, cry on, and God comfort you!”
So the children, who felt so lonely and desolate, did cry until they could cry no longer. Then Mrs. Miles immediately did the sort of thing she invariably found effectual in the case of her own children. She put the exhausted girls into a comfortable chair each by the fire, and brought them some hot milk and a slice of seed-cake, and told them they must sip the milk and eat the cake before they said any more.
Now, as a matter of fact, Sylvia and Hetty were, without knowing it in the least, in a starving condition. From the instant that Betty’s serious illness was announced they had absolutely refused all food, turning from it with loathing. Supper the night before was not for them, and breakfast had remained untasted that morning. Mrs. Miles had therefore done the right thing when she provided them with a comforting and nourishing meal. They would have refused to touch the cake had one of their schoolfellows offered it, but they obeyed Mrs. Miles just as though she were their real mother.
And while they ate, and drank their hot milk, the good woman went on with her cooking operations. “I am having a fine joint to-day,” she said: “corned beef that couldn’t be beat in any county in England, and that’s saying a good deal. It’ll be on the table, with dumplings to match and a big apple-tart, sharp at one o’clock. I might ha’ guessedthat some o’ them dear little missies were coming to dinner, for I don’t always have a hot joint like this in the middle o’ the week.”
The girls suddenly felt that of all things in the world they would like corned beef best; that dumplings would be a delicious accompaniment; and that apple-tart, eaten with Mrs. Miles’s rich cream, would go well with such a dinner. They became almost cheerful. Matters were not quite so black, and they had a sort of feeling that Mrs. Miles would certainly help them to find the lost treasure.
Having got her dinner into perfect order, and laid the table, and put everything right for the arrival of her good man, Mrs. Miles shut the kitchen door and drew her chair close to the children.
“Now you are warm,” she said, “and fed, you don’t look half so miserable as you did when you came in. I expect the good food nourished you up a bit. And now, whatever’s the matter? And where is that darling, Miss Betty? Bless her heart! but she twined herself round us all entirely, that she did.”
It would be wrong to say that Sylvia did not burst into fresh weeping at the sound of Betty’s name.
But Hester was of stronger mettle. “We have come to you,” she said—“Oh, Sylvia, do stop crying! it does no manner of good to cry all the time—we have come to you, Mrs. Miles, to help us to save Betty.”
“Lawk-a-mercy! and whatever’s wrong with the dear lamb?”
“We are going to tell you everything,” said Hester. “We have quite made up our minds. Betty is very, very ill.”
“Yes,” said Sylvia, “she is so ill that Dr. Ashley came to see her twice yesterday, and then again a third time with a great, wonderful special doctor from London; and we were not allowed to sleep in her room last night, and she’s—oh, she’s dreadfully bad!
“They whispered in the school,” continued Sylvia in alow tone—“I heard them; theydidwhisper it in the school—that perhaps Betty would—woulddie. Mrs. Miles, that can’t be true! God doesn’t take away young, young girls like our Betty. God couldn’t be so cruel.”
“We won’t call it cruelty,” said Mrs. Miles; “but God does do it, all the same, for His own wise purposes, no doubt. We’ll not talk o’ that, my lambs; we’ll let that pass by. The thing is for you to tell me what has gone wrong with that bonny, strong-looking girl. Why, when she was here last, although she was a bit pale, she looked downright healthy and strong enough for anything. Eh, my dear dears! you can’t mention her name even now to Dan and Beersheba that they ain’t took with fits o’ delight about her, dancing and scampering like half-mad dogs, and whining for her to come to them. There, to be sure! they know you belong to her, and they’re lying down as contented as anything at your feet. I don’t expect, somehow, your sister will die, my loves, although gels as young as she have passed into the Better Land. Oh, dear, I’m making you cry again! It’s good corned beef and dumplings you want. You mustn’t give way, my dears; people who give way in times o’ trouble ain’t worth their salt.”
“We thought perhaps you’d help us,” said Sylvia.
“Help you, darlings! That I will! I’d help you to this extent—I’d help you even to the giving up o’ the custom o’ Haddo Court. Now, what can I do more than that?”
“Oh, but your help—the help you can give us—won’t do you any harm,” said Hester. “We’ll tell you about Betty, for we know that you’ll never let it out—except, indeed, to your husband. We don’t mind a bit his knowing. Now, this is what has happened. You know we had great trouble—or perhaps you don’t know. Anyhow, we had great trouble—away, away in beautiful Scotland. One we loved died. Before she died she left something for Betty to take care of, and Betty took what she had left her. It wasonly a little packet, quite small, tied up in brown paper, and sealed with a good many seals. We don’t know what the packet contained; but we thought perhaps it might be money, and Betty said to us that it would be a very good thing for us to have some money to fall back upon in case we didn’t like the school.”